


my obsessio

by anamustdie



Category: Stan Lee's Lucky Man (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: AU, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, Dirty Talk, Drug Use, Drugs, Heroin, Hurt/Comfort, Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin) Has OCD, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Out of Character, Songfic, dirty - Freeform, modern!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22420192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamustdie/pseuds/anamustdie
Summary: When I saw him for the first time... everything in my head is quiet. All ticktocks, all constantly flickering pictures just disappeared. When you really have obsessive-compulsive disorder, you have no peace of mind
Kudos: 4





	1. six invitations of chaos.

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [моя обсессия.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26285002) by [anamustdie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamustdie/pseuds/anamustdie). 



There was always too much noise in Julian's life. It seemed to him that he no longer remembered himself without these voices and pictures flickering before his eyes. They say you can't miss what has never happened, but Julian really missed the silence. Very rarely, he allowed himself to push back a heavy curtain, look out the window of his rented apartment and watch people. They were so fast, loud and happy in their complete ignorance of chaos. Then it became completely unbearable.

His parents were this a type of people. They didn't disinfect their hands after every touch, freely went outside, didn't think that it would be great to learn Old English, and then really started to learn it. They didn't count the money exactly six times, didn't refuse to accept for change, pay or withdraw from the account any banknotes except twenty. They didn't repeat the same thing to themselves six times, because the first five might not be true enough. They were free, and Julian also wanted to be free.

On his first fee for hacking a corporate server, he took off a very tiny two-room apartment in the east of Bloomsbury and finally sighed deeply. Now he could turn on the light and off, and turn it off, and turn it on and off as many times as needed. No one else walked in boots on clean floors and didn't interfere with cleaning. Now he finally couldn't speak with people who don't understand that they are loud, and the matter is not in his voice at all.

But, contrary to expectations, that now he will surrender to work and the blissful silence will swallow him, after moving he had a desire to go out. For one hundred and fifty-eight days of his solitary residence, he didn't advance further than twelve steps from the front door with a sense of calm, but damn who would know how Julian was proud of these whole twelve steps! He even canceled his permanent application for two-time pizza delivery to his home, because he could already go to the pizzeria and even make an order. After that, he sat under his desk for another forty-seven minutes, hugging his knees and get over it. But it was worth it to feel normal for fifteen minutes.

And then it got worse. The noise became more and more, those rare customers who came to his house, but didn't communicate through the network, frightened Julian more and more. And then heroin appeared in his life. And no one dares to tell him that this is wrong, because without drugs it’s just not quiet.

***

The third of April began at exactly seven thirty in the morning, and not a minute later or earlier. Actually, like every third day, it doesn’t matter which month; every April day, no matter what date. Always seven thirty. Julian opens his eyes without the alarm ringing, and this is another of his compulsions*. It was just that sometime in high school he decided that it would be great to wake up always at seven-thirty, and for the fourth year now he has been up only at this time. It doesn’t matter if he lies down at nine in the evening, or will fulfill the order until six in the morning. Always seven thirty. Seven thirty. Seven thirty. Seven thirty.

The guy abruptly sits down on the bed and discontentedly squints his large greenish eyes with red circles beneath them - an integral part of his style, as his mother used to say. In a small bedroom there is only one window, often closed of blinds. But the third of April turned out to be extremely sunny for rainy London, and now Julian sits and watches as a small ray of the morning sun breaks through a single little hole in his same small bedroom and shines exclusively in his right eye.

Hole. Hole. Hole. Hole. Panic. Imperfection. A quick jerk, and Julian walks to the blinds in two steps and corrects the asymmetry with icy fingers. Calm

Recently, he is getting worse. Now in his house there are only blue handles with red caps, all the shoes in the closet are turned with their socks exclusively to the right, if these are sneakers, and pointed directly, if these are boots. The key in the lock is only upright, the sugar in the tea is stirred five times clockwise and three counterclockwise, and you need to start stirring five times, otherwise the not cheap Darjeeling* immediately goes to the sink, and everything starts again. Darjeeling. Darjeeling. Darjeeling. Enough.

Yesterday, a guy who wanted to get the driver’s license contacted him so that Julian has only three and a half hours left to moral and not only preparation for the client’s arrival, which means that he need to start right now. The daily ritual, which includes taking a shower, breakfast, wet cleaning the apartment and another visit to the shower ends shortly before the arrival of the guest.

The first knock on the door. Julian takes three steps toward the door and freezes slightly hunched over and clasping his hands to the torso. Exactly eleven in the morning. The first quiet blow is followed by five more, with an interval of a second, and only then the guy finally start moving and goes to the door. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Five steps up, and he turns the key in the lock, opens the door so that only dark hair and a timid expression of the owner's face can be seen from the corridor. The guy in front of him is tall enough so that the first thing that Julian saw was his neck and his collarbones barely sticking out from behind the round collar.

“Shoes off, please,” the guy says quietly, but he thinks he is screaming.

For those two and a half seconds that it takes the customer to recover, Julian almost flies through the steps, and finally turns to face the person. Face to face is always calmer. Face to face. Face to face. Face to face. He watches as the customer takes off his shoes and most importantly puts them parallel to each other, and then very slowly goes down the small stairs into the depths of the apartment. Here almost always twilight reigns, and he who came from the sunlit street needs to get used to the lighting in order to examine the owner, while Julian doesn't need extra time.

The guy on the contrary does't look like a guy, rather an adult man. A little long curly hair covers the ears and emphasizes the cheekbones, and the beard adds age. He is wide and a little clumsy — at the first minute that he was in the apartment, he almost threw the rack with vinyl records and tripped on the table. Julian looks at an uncertain but rather friendly smile and everything is quiet. Smile. Smile. Smile. Smile. Quiet. Around it became abruptly calm, and this frightened the guy. He really never had calm moments in his life. And after seventy-nine seconds the noise returned, it was not quiet again. And it seemed that the unexpected silence frightened Julian so much that when he returned to the chaos, he felt relieved.

“Hi, I'm Geralt,” the guy took a step forward and held out his hand for greeting, forcing the landlord to squeeze into the desktop and break his fingers out of his hands. "And you are Jaskier, I know. A very strange pseudonym, babyboy" the guy smiled and put his hands in his pockets, slightly tilting his head as if nothing had happened. “They told me you were a little crazy. I didn’t think that everything so bad."

There was no mockery or pity in his voice. He simply said what they told him, and what he saw himself. Julian turned to the table and pulled out a box with tools, frantically scrolling in his head the words a man said. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. This is not true. He is normal. All is well.

“I need a driver’s license,” Geralt approached Julian from the back, looking over his shoulder. “Mine was confiscated because I was a little drunk. Can you imagine! I drank only fifty grams of whiskey!" He spoke, spoke, spoke, spoke, and the noises in Julian's head grew louder, and his hands trembled more and more. "No, I could retake driving test again, but I have to wait a whole year, but I cannot live without my car!''

"You. My chair!" Julian spun around, unable to withstand ultrasound, and pointed towards a small chair in another part of the living room, and then, frightened by his own voice, he added barely audible: "Please"

And the guy really sat down, but continued to talk. He spoke even when Julian photographed him for documents, which is why in the photo he turned out to have a funny open mouth. He talked about the car, and about the weather on the street, about funny stories from his job, on which he himself laughed. He talked about the tasteless coffee around the corner and how he was once doused with water from a puddle. And Julian tried to calm the tremor of his hands and evenly burn out with a laser the ultraviolet portrait of the Queen.

With these conversations, he finished work twenty-one minutes later than planned, so when Geralt got new rights, the guy was one step away from a panic attack.

“How old are you, Jaskier?” He looked up at the guy who hugging himself around the waist and put the document in his pocket.

Julian looked from beneath a long strands of hair and waved his hand in confusion.

“No questions, part of the deal" the guy said quietly. ''two hundred pounds, twenty notes only''.

Geralt got up and put his hand in the breast pocket of a leather jacket, counted out two hundred and handed them to the guy. Julian grabbed them abruptly and counted them. Two, four, six, eight, ten. Two, four, six, eight, ten. Two hundred. Two, four, six, eight, ten. Two, four, six, eight, ten. Two hundred. Then he did this four more times and, carefully folding them into a wooden box, turned to Geralt, who had been watching him closely all this time.

“Do you do everything six times?”

“You have to leave now. Or it won't be good.”

“What are these red marks on your wrists?”

“Now, please!” he turned his head to the side, although his eyes were fixed on the guy and his hand was pointing at the door. Geralt looked at on the needle marks on someone else's wrist with interest, but Julian almost immediately pressed his hand to his chest.

And Geralt obediently went to the door. Shoeing, he called Julian six times for coffee, and the guy took it as a mockery. Because in the understanding of Julian it was. Geralt is not the first to decide to make a joke like this with the "crazy stupid Lettenhove."

After waiting for the guy to go out the door, Julian hurried after him. One, two, three, four, five. He froze at the last step and abruptly slammed the door in front of the guest's smiling face.

Contrary to expectations, it was calm. The annoying guest’s voice firmly stuck in Julian’s head, the offer to drink coffee buzzed in his ears for some reason, and the story of a puddle and a car involuntarily popped up in his memory. In the first minute, when he saw this man it seemed to the guy that he had finally got rid of the chaos, but he only made it worse.

Counting to twenty-seven, but still not normalizing the heart rate, Julian staggered back from the closed door, to which he pressed his back all the time, and ran in panic to the bathroom. He was eleven steps late. If before he was intermittently breathing, now his breath completely stopped, and Julian slowly crawled to the floor.

Squatting and arching his fingers in the strangest figures of the shadow show, the guy tried with all his might not to hear the blood beating in his ears, and the screams around him were getting louder and worse. But all he did was crawl a little to the left and climb under the desktop. Under the desktop. Under the desktop. Under the desktop. Where safe.


	2. panic, radiohead and wardrobe

Almost seven days have passed since the arrival of the human incarnation of chaos. This time, it really took Julian a week. But it used to be even worse - sometimes he couldn’t get out of the state of apathy for weeks. He sat in an armchair for days and just stared at the wall, letting the noise envelop his mind and body. On such days, he could only move in order to perform elementary necessary actions: go to the restroom, drink water. He couldn’t eat, nor could he take a bath. It took too much energy.

In fact, getting up from the living room chair, walking fifteen steps to the bathroom, opening the door, going to the toilet, and then repeating these steps on the contrary could take up to forty minutes. In the rush of apathy, he became so slow that he irritated himself.

On April 11, Julian was awakened by a random knock on the door. The guy slowly got up on the bed, rubbed his eyes, recovered in a few seconds and made quick dashes to the living room. Knock. Knock. Knock. So loud and messy. It almost hurts.

A quick glance at the clock - twenty to five in the morning. Another look at the screen, which is broadcasting video from the camera above the front door, is the human incarnation of chaos. With a long groan, Julian ran to the stairs. One, two, three, four, five. Six. He froze in front of the door with his hands on it and closed his eyes. The vibration gave off unpleasantly to the fingertips, and the noise outside the door was periodically interrupted by the shouts of neighbours and threats to call the police.

Gathering all his will into a fist, he gently pulled the door towards himself, allowing the hurricane to sweep into his apartment, and then closed it on the lock for two turns.

“Shoes off, please,” Julian squeezed out of himself, seeing how this crazy huge clot of communication and noise was nursing around his apartment, rummaging through things. “Please... your shoes… my floors…” whines Julian, rushing after the man.

He saw dirt spreading everywhere, he could feel it, hear it. Hear. Hear. Hear. Loud.

Geralt turns sharply when the guy comes close enough to him and grabs his right arm. The one that interested him with her spots last time. Julian can't take it anymore. Too much, too noisy, too dirty. So messy.

“You are shooting heroin!” exclaims Geralt, squeezing Julian's wrist tightly.

Having pulled his hand out of the grasp with a frightened cry, Julian quickly backed away, until he hit the wall so sharply that his head hit the brick with a thud. But he didn’t rub it, didn’t gasp, but simply pressed his heels, shins, backside, shoulders and top of his head, trying to squeeze into the brick. And he pressed his hands to his chest, invariably breaking thin knobby fingers and trembling.

Geralt was too close. He brought so much noise, dirt and madness to Julian's life that the guy was ready to give him two hundred dollars, if only he never appeared on the horizon again. Two hundred. Two hundred. Two hundred. Never.

“These aren’t birthmarks or burns. I found out!” Geralt scolded him loudly, while Julian tried to gather himself together. “When you contact that asshole again,” the man came closer and closer, and Julian couldn’t understand how Geralt could be even closer, because if he already didn’t have enough air, “I want to be present at the meeting. If not, I'll come back and touch you as often as possible. You understood me?” Julian nodded in a crazy rhythm and whined again, throwing his head back and breathing heavily. “Is my number left?”

Julian was on the verge of hysteria. It was all wrong, so wrong. Not quiet. He just wanted peace of mind.

“Zero one three zero zero twenty zero zero,” rattled Julian, trembling so much that he almost touched Geralt with his hand, “six… five…”

“So, we agreed,” Geralt raised an eyebrow in surprise, not expecting the guy to know the number by heart. But Julian knows the numbers of everyone who has ever left him their contacts. Knows. Knows. Knows. Useless. “See you sweetheart.”

When the front door slammed shut, the guy let out a hysterical half-cry, half a moan, crawling down on his haunches, arching his fingers to a crunch of bones. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he really wanted it to end as soon as possible. Everything around it became too wrong. His apartment suddenly became incredibly someone else's, and this scared Julian even more. He didn’t know where he was. In front of him was an old brown eco-leather sofa, next to it a similar chair, and a panel with a video camera broadcast hung above the work table. Julian understood that he was _at_ _home_ , that these were _his things_ , he understood _what_ these things were, but at the same time everything seemed different to him. As if a translucent photo was superimposed on top of a real image with a similar interior of the room, but still different. Everything was familiar and incredibly strange. Strange. Strange. Strange. Like he's going through a heart attack right now.

And then everything returned to its place. The sofa became a sofa again, the neighbour’s cat on the broadcast became a neighbour’s cat. The sobs and heavy breathing stopped as abruptly as they began, and he slowly raised his head. Strands of hair clumped together with sweat, tears, and saliva covered his face, interfering with focusing his vision. But Julian knows his apartment, and he doesn't need to see to know what is where. On the third shelf from the top, between the gray and black robots, there is a box of syringes, a spoon, and a small packet of heroin.

Stumbling over the padded legs from the long squatting, Julian somehow got to the coveted box and got out the drug. Spoon, lighter, syringe. Spoon, lighter, syringe. Spoon, lighter, syringe. Painfully. The injection burned a vein and the guy gasped quietly, but injected the drug. Overcoming the urge to lie down, Julian threw away the dirty syringe, wiped the table, hid the box and only then allowed himself to slide down onto the sofa with a satisfied groan. He didn't feel happy or euphoric. It just got quiet. All these flickering pictures disappeared, the sound of machine alarms and footsteps outside the door disappeared. So quiet. So good.

***

“I didn't think you'd really call me,” said Geralt, taking a puffing on the ugly smelling Black Devil. And Julian sighed, trying not to breathe this sickly sweet and concentrated smell of vanilla and tobacco, with difficulty suppressing nausea inside.

He wasn’t going to contact Geralt. He wasn’t going to betray his dealer. But this human incarnation of chaos was so persuasive, persistent and loud. And even the most frightening. Frightening. Frightening. Frightening. And he really could touch, touch and touch Julian until his heart stopped from fear, disgust and anger. This led to the fact that now they are standing in front of a heavy metal door, smoking and waiting for the clock to strike eight in the evening. Because Julian only visits Gary on the last Thursday of the month and only at eight o'clock in the evening. He may be a drug addict, but organized, and, probably, the attacks of compulsions prevent him from diving headlong into addiction.

Pursing slightly plump, chapped lips, Julian thrust his hands into the pockets of wide trousers and lowered his head, again hiding his face behind a screen of hair. He could see how Geralt, when inhaling, closes his eyes, exhales smoke, slightly protruding his lower lip, and periodically glances at Julian.

If the guy wasn’t afraid of this crazy talkative man, he could say that he is almost handsome. Only pronounced cheekbones and a strange nose spoiled the overall picture, but these imperfections could be right if Julian tried very hard to convince himself of this. He was wide, really wide, with a strange mania to wear tight pants and shirts, which caused others within a mile radius to see that he had more muscle mass than the whole weight of Julian. But, probably because of his appearance, no one pestered them in the alley or on the next street today, where complete drug addicts usually swarm. It also smelled of nutmeg. Julian wasn’t very fond of this smell, but everything is better than vanilla Black Devil.

“How old are you, Jaskier?” Geralt took the last puff and threw the cigarette butt under his feet, lightly pressing it down with the toe of a heavy boot. Julian's eye twitched treacherously.

He took half a step forward, but the man had already bent down and raised his cigarette butt. A quiet gratitude for the cleanliness spread inside Julian.

“It is time,” the guy said briefly and opened the heavy door with both hands and entered the house. Geralt obediently followed him, examining the old wooden doors without numbers and the dirty floor.

Julian stopped somewhere in the middle of the corridor and knocked on the green door with peeling paint. One knock in one second. Six times. There were footsteps and the sound of something falling outside the door, and a tall, thin guy with a short haircut rose behind the opening door. He was wearing only old shabby sweatpants and a hat. Geralt grunted in surprise and raised an eyebrow, sincerely not understanding why the guy put on a hat, leaving almost half of his body naked.

Julian, counting to six, walked quickly into the living room, which was too clean for such an old and dirty house, and took off his shoes. He put his Converses in parallel and pressed them against the wall, either in an attempt not to occupy the already small space at the door, or trying to find peace in order.

“Will you have some tea? I'll brew your favourite,” the voice of the home owner, whom Julian had previously named Gary, was hoarse and slightly breaking into a whisper. But Geralt was surprised to notice that this relaxed the guy. They probably knew each other for not one day, and the dealer was attentive to the oddities of his customers, because he knew what and how to say. Good customer-centric approach.

“I ... didn't come alone.”

Julian barely turned his head to indicate the man standing behind him. Geralt couldn’t see Julian's hands, which the guy was holding in front of him, but something told him that now he was crushing and pricking the pads of his fingers with his nails.

“It’s okay, Juli, I'll brew for him too,” Gary didn't seem surprised or scared. This is extremely strange, because in his apartment there is a stranger the size of a wardrobe and is trying with all his might to exterminate the dealer with his eyes. Geralt read that hucksters get scared when a third person has the opportunity to watch the deal. And this guy didn't seem to mind at all.

The few minutes that were given to Julian for being alone (Geralt doesn’t count), he spent sitting on the couch and not moving. He just looked at the table and continuing to squeeze his hand, and then he reached out to a small vase of sweets and began to sort them by colour. He looked calmer now than the two times Geralt had seen him. He seemed almost a normal guy, if not for the quiet count and slightly shaking hands.

“I selected six for you so you don't worry,” a tray with three cups of tea and a sugar bowl was placed on the table.

Julian raised his head only after he had sorted all the candies. Gary was already sitting beside him, stirring tea without a sound. Five times clockwise and three times counterclockwise. And Geralt first saw the guy smiling. It was a pale resemblance to what is called a smile, but it was so sincere that Geralt caught a powerful cognitive dissonance. Gary not only cleaned the living room (only in the living room, because when Geralt looked into the kitchen, he saw a creative mess), but also adjusted to the constant account of Julian. He did literally everything to make the hacker feel comfortable. Drug dealers are unlikely to pay such attention to ordinary consumers.

After a few minutes of quiet negotiations, the dealer got up and briefly left the living room to return almost immediately with a small packet. There was very little heroin at the bottom, which really surprised Geralt. Although Julian didn’t look like an addict, it wasn’t the first time he took drugs, these crumbs are hardly enough for him.

When twenty-pound bills appeared from his pocket, Geralt couldn’t stand it. Putting aside the mug, he crossed the room in several wide steps and pushed the dealer in the chest, knocking out the packet. Julian screamed. He lost control, the noise entered his consciousness again, and the reason for this is the incarnation of chaos. He saw Geralt firmly hold Gary by the shoulder and hit him in the stomach a couple of times, forcing him to bend, and then straighten him and, squeezing his throat, growls in his ear. Growls. Growls. Growls. Julian pulled his legs under him, fully crawling onto the sofa and hugged his knees, swinging slightly to the side.

“He's just a kid for this shit, asshole,” the man squeezes his hand harder and presses the guy into the wall. “If I find out that you sold him drugs, and I find out about it, don’t hesitate, I’ll beat you so that you will piss in blood. And if he finds heroin and takes it, I will ask you, because something tells me that it was you who put him on drugs.”

Loud. Scary. Dangerously. Julian covered his ears with his palms, pulled his hair slightly and shouted. The noise became quieter, and when the guy decided that he had gained control and opened his eyes, Geralt was there. With the most bestial expression on his face, he lifted Julian by the elbow and literally dragged him to the hallway. Geralt put on shoes on Julian and roughly pushed him out the door. And the guy just wanted to be at home, under the table, safe, so he did what any scared person would do - he ran. Homeward. Homeward. Homeward. It's not loud there.

It seemed to him that the road took forever, although, in fact, only a couple of minutes - to the next block. He flew up the steps, quietly whispering a reassuring count under his breath, and only on the threshold of the house realized that Geralt hadn’t left him. He breathed heavily and held on to the doorframe, but didn’t lag behind.

Julian whimpered softly and slid to the floor, covering his head with his hands and swaying from side to side.

“Go away, go away, go away,” his requests were more like a mantra.

But the man didn't leave. He just slowly and very carefully untied other people's laces and lifted the unresisting guy in his arms. On the way to the bathroom, Julian was listing a strange set of words more and more quietly and illegibly.

“Crimson. Parceling. Darjeeling. Six. Dust smell after rain. Crimson. Parceling. Darjeeling. Six. Dust smell after rain. Crimson. Parceling. Darjeeling. Six. Dust smell after rain,” even sitting on the toilet lid, he continued to whisper to himself, completely forgetting about the presence of the second person here.

Geralt patiently brushed the other people's hair off his face, rubbed a string of saliva with his finger and washed the guy with ice water. It didn't help much, but at least Julian stopped uttering a meaningless set of words. Now he sat in silence, tightly clenching his knees and putting his hands on them, and looked warily at the man with his big, really big, eyes. Julian didn’t understand why this stranger was doing what he was doing, why he wouldn’t leave him alone, and what he generally needed.

They spent a few seconds in silence, and then Geralt washed his hands several times and took Julian's palm in his. Washed hands. Washed hands. Washed hands. Thanks. He took the guy to the bedroom, made him sit on the sofa.

“Jaskier, please, you're not yourself. You need a break,” Geralt said when the guy tried to get up, and again sat him down. He went to the switch and turned on and off the light exactly six times, after which Julian still agreed to go to bed.

“You don't understand,” the guy spoke barely audibly, pressing his knees to his chest and burying his nose in them. “Otherwise it's just not quiet.”

“I don't understand,” agreed Geralt. “You are sick and need help, but now you need a healthy sleep.”

He spoke softly, but his voice bounced off the walls and struck Julian's ears.

“I’m not sick.”

Geralt said nothing. He just sat down on the floor near someone else's bed and ran his wide palm into Jaskier's regrown hair, lightly stroking and massaging the skin.

“And true love waits

In haunted attics

And true love lives

On lollipops and crisps”

He sang softly and unobtrusively, and Julian was surprised to realize that in this room there was only Geralt's voice. He has only Geralt's voice in his head. Voice. Voice. Voice. Pleasant. The human incarnation of chaos suddenly became the incarnation of silence, because it drowned out everything that was outside this world. It was quiet now, and Julian was almost happy.

He opened his eyes and looked closely at Geralt, who smiled slightly and nodded, as if reading his thoughts.

“I closed it two turns and left the key upright,” he interrupted the song, but continued almost immediately.

Geralt sang the same song six times, and only then did Julian allow himself to fall into a blissful quiet sleep.


End file.
